


Baseball Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

by CypressSunn



Series: One Hundred and One Shots [9]
Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Baseball, Drama, F/M, Fluff, More than one secret relationship actually, Platonic Relationships, Secret Relationship, Team as Family, Yuletide, Yuletide 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypressSunn/pseuds/CypressSunn
Summary: Ginny Baker, major league’s first and only woman, the most important athlete in the world, fresh off the disabled list, riding the comeback to end all comebacks straight to the big-show, is engaged.But to who, is the question.





	Baseball Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maybetwice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/gifts).



The press finds out because some hoodie wearing mook jimmies the lock on the door of Baker’s hotel suite, forcing it open in hopes of ransacking the place. Said mook had done seemingly little reconnaissance because he was none to prepared for the one and only Ginny Baker who was still inside.

Everything after that is a blur, according to Baker. Pelting a vase at his head. Ripping a lamp from the wall. Swinging wild as that piss poor batsman from the Diamondbacks. The creep fled but Baker doesn't let him off that easy - because easy’s just not in her nature - chasing him out into the hall and down the fire stairwell. The ruckus wakes up half the hotel. Complaints phoning down to the front desk before the pair spill out into the lobby.

Then the press strikes. The cameramen lying in wait crowd around her, snapping shots and flashing lights and lobbing questions. Baker loses sight of the little thief for half a second, shouting for someone to stop him. But the twit from ESPN thinks then is the prime moment to scope out Baker’s views on the Giants’ new line up. He disappears, only the scurrying black edges of his hoodie captured and recaptured in the dozens of photos of Baker. Covered in sweat with her hair loose and unruly, wearing nothing but track pants and an all but see-through tank. Defeated, she retreats, covering her face with her hands. That's when they see it.

The slim white gold setting. Square cut centerpiece and accent rubies. All four glimmering carats from every angle on the fourth finger of her left hand.

Ginny Baker, major league’s first and only woman; the most important athlete in the world. Fresh off the disabled list, riding the comeback to end all comebacks straight to the big-show, is engaged.

But to who, is the question.

That's when a mile away in the Padres' clubhouse, Mike Lawson’s phone explodes. Calls, messages, alerts blowing up before Baker even stepped off the elevator back up to her suite.

"Shit," is all he can say, watching Al, Oscar, Livan and the rest checking their buzzing phones. The whispering starts. Players huddled together, the in-house flat screen rolling a breaking new piece about the whole ordeal. Outside reporters bang and bang against clubhouse doors, rattling everything from bolts to hinges.

And that’s when the real circus begins.

***

Ginny knows Oscar is lying because he’s smiling so hard she can see his dental fillings. She knows he planned his route accordingly because he just so happened to walk past her on her way to the clubhouse, all grins and hair gel to hide his escalating heart condition.

“Ginny! Congratulations, we heard the good news.”

Ginny nods, smiles with a tad more restraint for the photo no one is taking. She’s a proud alum of schooled features and if her general manager thinks he can compete with her in the fake smile derby, he’s got another thing coming. But Oscar doesn’t take the hint.

“So Ginny, we, the front office, had been under the impression, or in the hopes that this season was going to be-”

“More about the game, less about the girl playing it?”

“Not in those words, but also yes. Exactly those words. We had hoped you had similar goals. Your new management, however, hasn’t effectively communicated as much to the office, or the press, or anyone for that matter.”

“I’ll have Eliot write up a release and send it to Rhonda. I know the song and dance.”

Ginny went to open the clubhouse door, recently repaired from when it had all but been caved in by a stampede of reporters- but Oscar forces it shut.

“Your faith in Mister Woo is charming, Ginny,” indicating that Oscar had no such faith in her social media guru turned full-blown agent. “But this requires more than a song and samba. Every sports reporter in the world right now is camping outside my office. they brought actual duffle bags and pillowcases. We had to hire extra security for all corridors leading to the clubhouse. CNN keeps fishing for soundbites. Late night talk show hosts and sponsors call the office to complain that your agent doesn't call them back. I have TMZ calling me personally at all hours of the night. Do you know what that is? It’s Los Angeles Hollywood trash. They have my personal phone number. Hell, even my ex-wife's phone number. I don’t know how they got it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You telling the world who your fiancé is would go along way to making it up to me.”

“My personal life is private.”

“Baker,” Oscar starts, sternly.

“The military shrink your office made me see advised that I build a personal, separate life outside of baseball. Not an image or a story to feed to the fans or the press. And, somehow,” she trails off, mouth upturned, “somehow I’ve done that. You wouldn’t want me to uncross those lines and have to start therapy again, would you?”

Oscar grits his teeth, before unclenching. “No,” he sighs, as if the answer was a surprise to himself as well, “I honestly would not.”

Ginny blinks, taken aback by the real smile slips through her general manager. Perhaps under all those pinstripes was a romantic; holding the door open for her into the corridor leading to the clubhouse. They walk side by side, not knowing what else to do or what else Oscar needs from her. Ginny slows her stride so the pantsuited man can keep step. He’s rethinking his approach, she realizes. Everybody wants something, she learned that long before she ever made it up to the majors.

Ginny flexes her left hand, an absent-minded motion she can’t quell. The ring is tucked away, but she misses the weight of it. It's almost grown as familiar as a baseball in hand.

“I learned from spring training that the only speeches you like are Lawson's,” Oscar's eyes dart away from the framed posters and jerseys, settle solely on her. Accessing. “So I’ll spare you my tragic backstory that I’m sure you could just google if you cared. But the thing I need you to understand about me is this; I hate when players squander their talent.”

“That word doesn’t exist in my vocabulary.”

“No one doubts that you put the work in-”

“But?”

“There are many other ways to ruin a career in this game. If you are truly, genuinely in love, the front office- no, I myself- wish you the very best. Please do not take me to be glib when I say no one deserves a better break in this game than you. Ginny, look me in the eye and tell me that the man who gave you that ring- is not a ballplayer- on this team or any other.”

Ginny sidestepped the man, full stop in front of him, arms crossed, jaw set. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. Nor will my representation. Now or ever.”

Oscar looks her up and down, taking stock of her. It’s a far cry from the usual looks she gets from suit and tie types. He's not undressing her with their eyes or treating her like he owns her. More often than not she'd take the raunchiest of ballpark groupies over management. But whatever Oscar does see leaves him satisfied. He drops his shoulders and the matter with it.

“What are the two of you doing out here mugging at each other for? We got a game to prep for.”

“It’s a charity game, Al,” Oscar smiles brightly. It really is his go-to weapon. But like the perfect toss of a screwball, Ginny knows its easy to settle into a comfortable arsenal. Al Luongo rolls his eyes, impervious to the younger man after years of it. “Ginny and I were only touching base.”

Al’s brow furrows and he turns to her. “He get anything out of you?”

“No, sir,” Ginny chirps back.

“Good,” Al beams with pride, “you don’t owe the front office a front row to your life.”

Oscar throws up his hands.

“The press will get bored eventually,” Al says in his most wizened voice. “We’re maybe two or three news cycles away from everyone forgetting they saw her wearing anything. And not to dredge up bad memories kid, but you remember the selfsies things? She wasn’t wearing a darn thing in those and no one remembers that-”

“Al, you cannot say things like-!” Oscars' eyes dart back and forth for any eavesdroppers or, god forbid, cameras.

“And eventually Hollywood will lose your number, too,” Ginny adds, saving Al from himself. “Even though that’ll be a shame, don’t you think Skip? He’s got a face for the big screen?”

“Now when did you get funny, Baker?” Al chides with a guiding hand on her shoulder. They close the door behind them and leave an exasperated Oscar to whatever his next crisis may be.

***

It's Eliot and Cara's turn to ambush her when she arrives at her dressing room, him jumping out from behind the door and her pouncing from the bench. Not the smartest of moves considering her recent break-in, both of them narrowly hitting the deck before she swings. Neither takes enough of a breath between pelting her with questions to take any real harm or offense. Ginny just slumps back against the closing door, face in her hands. Tamps down the reflexive dismissal she feels rising up and lets the absurdity of it wash over her. Everyone on earth and their mothers seemingly needing to know his name - hell, her own mother is leaving increasingly frantic texts begging for details.

“Does no one say ‘hi’ anymore, or is this how every conversation is going to begin for the rest of my life?”

“That depends,” says Cara, eyes sparkling with anticipation, "are you gonna show us the ring?”

“I didn’t bring it with me," she lies and their faces drop, the pair of them look unreasonably dejected. “Sue me, I thought coming to the park meant I would be playing ball, not a fashion show.”

“Then yeah we have about a million questions,” Eliot says, too seriously. “Like how did you hide it? We have been glued to your side since you got back from the retreat-”

“I’ve been here a month and you’ve never looked twice at any guy-”

“And this makes me look so bad as your new agent, everyone thinks I know more than I do!”

“Maxine and Charlie were grilling him,” Cara relayed with relish. “And they told him not to play dumb and he panicked and shouted at them, ‘I’m not playing dumb! I just am!’”

Ginny bursts out with a laugh that rounds the echo chamber of her closet-turned-locker-room. It's an embarrassing sort of laugh where she snorts halfway through it. And that makes both of them cackle along as well until all three of them are stooped over. And it dawns on Ginny that if she were going to tell anyone in this whole damn ballpark it would be them. Eliot, with his awkward and bashful nature, always overtired, and underprepared for all she asked of him in the wake of his boss’s departure. But never once complaining. Never once dishonest. And Cara, who blew back into Ginny’s world in a line-up of prospective interns, lying about her humble qualifications with an unphased sincerity and the promise of being the best damn clubbie no one has ever heard of.

Who the hell needed a Hollywood booking agent when she finally had people she could trust in her corner?

Still, pry as they might, they get nothing out of her. She shoos them out of her dressing room, belaboring that there’s a game to play. “I have to get dressed, and get warm, and talk Skip into putting me in the start. Go head up to the box seats. Pretend you're blind and deaf and don’t shout at any more of the team owners.”

Eliot shuffles off, red-faced again, but Cara does not go without a fight. Instead, she nudges her shoe between the closing door to and presses in close, crowding the view from the hallway. Ginny does the same, giggles back like the girl she feels like. Not the athlete or the spokeswoman or role model she knows she has to be. Just a girl and her best friend. "We got together after I had the surgery. He was with me at the recovery retreat. He proposed before I flew back to California-”

“Okay yeah," Cara interrupts, one track minded, "and the ring?”

Ginny slipped off her necklace, pulling it up like a drawstring, the glimmering ring hanging off the very end. Cara covers her mouth to squeal, and in between it all Ginny hears “I knew you had it” and “you’re a lying liar who lies and I love it.”

***

Charity ball is as boring as it sounds, but Ginny treats it like she would any other. Game face on, hair pinned back, muscles warm, legs uncrossed from her vantage point in the dugout. She manages a curt nod to every word Skip passes along. Files it away in her game plan. The jumbotron above scopes and scans over she every few minutes; Ginny can tell every time there's a washed out roar of applause in at the edge of her awareness. She’s sure for everyone else it's louder but to her its just a distraction. Just the camera techs and park media directors giving fans and reporters the show they think they came for. But Ginny has other things in mind.

Livan sidles up next to her in the dugout, the same look on his face he gets before he says something in Spanish that makes half the team want to shake him. Somehow he forgets more than half the boys know the language, including Skip.

"No," she snaps at Livan without looking at him. "Don't even start.”

“Not starting anything, _Mami_!”

“All I've done today is explain myself to people who should know better. Break the cycle Livan. Focus on the game."

" _Mami_ , what did you expect? Flashing your ring in front of the cameras?"

"A man broke into my hotel room. Has everyone forgotten that?” Somehow that parts of the news story seemed to get buried in all the pictures and speculation whirling around in the ever-present scrutiny. If they even mentioned it the pundits chalked it up to ‘girl power.’ Activists in their part rolling out with ‘this is what empowerment looks like.’ Listicles kept popping up showing the same gifs of the video made by fans on Tumblr with Ginny swinging her way into the lobby. In some of them her eyes were blacked out with a bar of text that said things like #STARTSHITGETHIT and #BYEBECKY and #FEMINISM.

There were moments that played and replayed that Ginny couldn’t even remember between the adrenaline slamming through her and the stamping rush in her eardrums as she fought and chased and fought. “I saw an ESPN clip where they only mentioned it to wonder if I hurt my pitching arm."

"Did you?" Livan asks, dead serious.

"Unbelievable," Ginny turns back to the game, watching the team captains go through the motions at the mound.

"If it makes you feel better, your boy Lawson threw a fit." Ginny tilted her head. No one had menitoned where Mike went. But there were plenty of absences in the dugout. Charity games were unofficial, easy to wiggle out of; especially after putting in more than a decade of work for the team brand. Hell, even Blip and Butch weren’t there. "Yeah, got all loud, muy enafando."

"Did he do the thing where he gets all huffy and frowny?" Livan nodded. "What a cheeseball."

"Hmm." Livan murmurs. It's a pensive enough sound that Ginny spares him a glance, spares him a chance not to be an ass. Because under Livan’s bluster and cockiness is a great ballplayer who could even one day be a great teammate one day if he got out of his own way. "It really isn't him, is it?"

It doesn’t click who he means at first. When it does, the look Ginny gives him makes him bounce back, smirking and fake-placating. "Hey, someone had to ask!”

“No, you really didn’t,” Ginny scolds. But at least to Livan's credit, he asked what Oscar either hadn't had the balls too.

“I'm just glad neither of you is that _estupido_.”

“Skip! not to sound insubordinate, but if you don’t put me in the start I can't guarantee I won't injure my wrist on Livan's face.”

Al waved her off, either because he knew she wouldn’t or at least suspected Livan would have it coming.

“No need to be so feisty if you’ve got nothing to hide, _Mami_.”

“Keeping his name out of the press isn’t because I have something to hide. Its because I have nothing I care to show the world right now. They already get enough of me,” Ginny points straight up. The jumbotron once again streaming her face to the asses.

“Fair enough… but” Ginny rolled her eyes as Livan whispered even more quietly, “if you want to let me know who he really is I know where to place a few bets. I could cut you in on the clubhouse action."

Ginny groaned. "How do you say unbelievable in Spanish?"

" _Increíble_."

“ _Increíble_ ,” Ginny repeats, all bite, no accent.

Livan chooses then to produce a phone from the dugout cubbies above, shows her the numbers in hushed tones. The guys are betting on Drake, Noah Casey, the one dude from that one boy band. Ginny should stay focused, care less about how downright rude some of the bets. Livan is ranking her prospective suitors in terms of hotness when his phone chirps and a photo message appears over the screen.

“Groupies sending nudes in the middle of a game, Duarte?”

“You know it,” he purrs, leaning back. If he notices that Ginny notices the selfie was of a distinctly male abdomen, neither of them commit to what it means.

“No phones in the dugout!” Skip barks, his word as law. The rest of the team sneers and shakes their heads. No technology from before 1980 was a hard an fast tradition to Al. But Livan cared little for _superstición_ as he called it, taking his sweet time to put his phone away. And while Ginny had learned not to screw with tradition, having the surgery scar to prove it, she had to admit it was unlikely they could jinx ourselves and lose to the b-list philanthropic match up. But that doesn’t stop her from daintily waving at Livan as she walks by, smug in her own right when Skip calls out, "Baker, you're up. Livan, your benched!” Livan just leans back and blows her a kiss.

“Remember, kid,” Al stops her at the gate, “it's just a charity game. Go easy on 'em. The front office doesn't want any starlets with hurt feelings."

Ginny mulls it over. "I can't promise that I won’t make Hemsworth cry."

"If nothing else, at least you're honest," Al chuckles as Ginny trotted out the field, the team in tow.

***

After the game winds down and the press junket is up and all their thank-you-for-the-donations are said and done, Al insists on team dinner is at his place. Ginny doesn’t realize how big a deal it is until the boys get a look like its Christmas come early. There hasn’t been a team dinner since Anna Luongo died, she learns when Sonny insists the food absolutely cannot be missed. Meanwhile Dusty has a look in his eye like he’s been heartbroken since Al’s lasagna walked out of his life and is finally ready to love again.

The anticipation is why Ginny opts to fast in the two hours between the impromptu invite and the team text-blast sent out with an address and the promise a feast for an army. Cara, who hasn’t appreciated being forced to also wait on dinner, asks a million questions about the diamond ring to distract herself. Eliot is making phone calls, asking embarrassing big brotherly questions about whether she needs a lawyer or a prenup.

“Nope,” is her response to every question as they load into an Uber. Eliot gently turns down the driver's request for a selfie with Ginny, who promises a huge tip instead. They settle into chatting about the radio and Eliot talks about his old band, which the driver somehow has heard about. They reminisce on how terrible the music was while Cara devolves into increasing ridiculous suggestions for Ginny’s finance.

“Big Bird?”

“Nope.”

“Tupac?”

“Nope.”

“Noah Casey?

“Nope.”

“Aha!” Cara cheers.

“You caught me. I’m not with Noah. You're still not getting anything else out of me.”

“But he’s at the top of every prospective poll for Baker’s Beau,” Eliot says.

“Baker’s what?” Ginny asks.

“It's shorthand. No one wants to say the strange mysterious unnamed dude that put a rock on Ginny Baker’s finger.”

“Those cannot be the only two options,” Ginny laughs. The driver pulls to a stop with Al’s cul-de-sac spread out before them. She slips the man a couple of hundreds before Eliot shuts the car door behind her. She can already smell dinner from the driveway.

***

Al’s home is grand but unassuming. Yellow stucco walks and clay red tile roofing, vines across the archways that look like something out of Italy and succulents to add a touch of native SoCal. Most of the team is gathered around the trellised patio enclosure with Livan at the center running through the bets on her love life.

Would it ever end.

“Ay, _Mami_? You got some insider information for us?”

“See, this is why there’s no betting in baseball” Ginny plops down on the patio loveseat. “It diminishes the impulse to play fair.”

“It’s just a little healthy gambling. No one’s throwing games or taking _esteroides_.”

“Tell that to the roided up Mets,” Mikes rolls in from the glass doors, carrying cases of beer with a bag of ice over his shoulder. It’s the first time Ginny’s seen him since Ginn-Sanity 2.0 took grip over San Diego. She can’t help but catalog him, loose blue flannel shirt, threadbare jeans, god’s honest beach sandals. He shrugs off Eric’s attempt help him distribute the haul into the coolers, smiling with a crinkle in his eyes saying “Salvy, you mix up the beers and if I have to her Buck moaning about accidentally drinking light beer again-” Once satisfied that both law and order have prevailed over the alcohol, he stops in his tracks, turns to her. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Ginny feigns.

“I don't know Baker, how’s the price of tea in China?”

“Tea?”

“Yes, Baker, I’m asking you about far east economics and consumer goods- and absolutely not engaging in hyperbole-” Omar actually scratches his head with that one and Mike throws his hands up. “The diamond! Baker! Your diamond ring that I am asked about my every waking moment of my life.”

Ginny shrugs. “What about it?”

“I’m sorry, did you suddenly develop a friend group when none of us were looking? A bunch of henpecking women to ooh and ahh at the rock your mystery man dropped on you?”

Ginny side eyed him. “Uh… well, these two.” Eliot and Cara wave from beside her.

“Uh, no. No, they won’t do. You pay them, Baker.” Both Cara and Eliot look offended. “Which means we’re the best you got. And while the Padres may not be bridal shower material- save for Javanes or Livan who could probably pull off bridesmaid dresses-”

“Fuck you, Lawson!” Livan tosses out, though Javanes nods along in agreement.

“-we’re the best you’ve got. Now cough it up, Baker. Let’s have a look-see at the piece of jewelry that is literally ruining my life.”

“I don’t carry it on me,”  she lies. The following collective audible gasp that breathed through the backyard was nothing short of melodrama. Ginny momentarily regretted ever playing in men’s sports.

“Why the hell not?” Omar asks.

“It’s bad luck for a woman to take the rock off before she’s got the wedding band.” Sonny points out. “Everybody knows that.”

“It’s too early in the season for this much superstition. And all of your take off your rings,” Ginny points out.

“But they aren't engagement rings!” Dusty implores, actually looking horrified.

“Why are a bunch of macho, bull-headed, grown men this interested in a piece of jewelry?

“Hey, we’re capable of evolving. Capable of personal, human growth. That’s how I know we can be in touch with our feminine sides and admire the symbol of your next greatest undertaking; marriage” Lawson insists with a straight face. A few of the guy raise their beers even. Ginny sits back, crossing her arms and forcing a laugh. “Don’t give me that look, Baker. It’s not like we learned it from watching you,” Lawson wags a finger in his face. “It’s Buck teaching us all he knows. Ain’t that right, Buck?”

“Yup,” croaks the portly assistant manager, cracking open a beer. From the look on his face, it's a light beer.

“Buck, for the last time. There is a system. The blue coolers have the dark brews,” Mike chastises with feigned chagrin. “Honestly, all of you are like herding cats.”

“I’d like to let it be known that I really haven’t missed your speeches.”

“That's a downright lie, Baker. I’m giving a toast at your wedding.” Mike raises his glass of water, “it's gonna be beautiful. Moving folks to tears left and right. Just wall to wall weeping women and men averting their crisis of faith-”

“You’re not invited. All Padres but you are invited.” To that, the boys cheered. Mike’s longwinded boo carried after her all on her way into the house.

The food smells amazing. Butter and basil and garlic smoking through the air. At some point Eliot slipped off, ending up seated next to Livan at the dining table. The two are huddled too close whispering half in English and in Spanish, chiding and chuckling. Eventually, Livan wraps an arm around Eliot’s shoulder and the man knuckles under, blurting out “its not Noah Casey that’s all I know!”

There's a collective groan from half the table, presumably those who bet on the motion capture genius billionaire game designer.

Honestly, she had a one night stand. Did they really think she was going to marry the guy?

“Wow,” chides Cara. “that's all it took? He caved like a house of cards.”

“Is it too soon to fire her?” Eliot asks, half serious. Cara sticks out her tongue. “I am technically your boss you know!”

“Bring it, bitch,” Cara giggles. Livan musses Eliot’s hair with an almost warm affection, chuckles something lowly only Eliot can hear.

“No more shop talk,” says Al appears, wrapped in an apron carrying in serving dishes. “I need extra hands in here.” Ginny hops up amiable and helpful, but mostly ready to sneak a first bite of gnocchi.

***

“Don’t you dare, Baker,” warns her mind-reader of a coach as she follows him into the kitchen. Though still he stops before a pot of marinara, holds out a wooden spoon for Ginny to taste. The noise Ginny makes can only be called approval.

“It’s perfect.”

“Shows what you know, Missy,” Al chides. “It needs more basil,” and with a flourish, he pulls off his oven mitts and deposits the spices. Ginny hasn’t cooked a meal for herself since San Antonio. Hasn’t cooked a decent meal since Tarboro. There’s something to the mechanics of domesticity that still puzzles her, still makes her feel out of place and listless.

“Your fella? He cooks for you, I hope.”

“He does,” Ginny laughs, “eggs, bacon, pancakes from scratch-”

“You can’t live on breakfast alone,” Al counsels, stirring something with shellfish. Ginny nods, and what Al’s really asking goes unsaid. He doesn’t care about her eating regimen. Just that she’s being taken care of. Then Al turns to her. “Well, let's see it.” Ginny doesn’t even pretend not to know what he means, because it’s Al. She slips the ring out, holds it up by the chain. He squints before giving up. “You need to put it on,” is all Al imparts, “for the full effect.” So she does. It settles behind her knuckle, caught aglow in the low light of the sun through the windows.

“You can tell a lot about a man by the ring he buys. And I’m sorry to say this,” Al hedges, “but your man doesn’t have taste.”

“Wow,” she blurts out, “really, Skip?”

“But at least he’s got heart. Setting the rubies and the diamonds to look like the stitching of a baseball is a nice touch. Now my Anna would’ve called it tacky. But I say he’s got charm, if nothing else.”

“I won’t argue. With you or Anna.”

“He loves the game though?” Al trails off. Ginny nods. “But does he understand it? What it means to be a ballplayer? To be married to one? Does he know what 160 games a year looks like? Hell, more than that if this season keeps up. And the away games, the trainings, the slumps, reporters. Is he ready for the injuries, ready to keep you bedridden when you gotta be? What about the politics, from the front office, from the spectators?”

“Al-” Ginny starts. “I’m pretty sure he has a good idea.”

“Alright,” Al pulls back, apologetic. She can tell he feels he's overstepped. “I won’t ask any more questions. I just, I want you to look out for yourself, kid. I want you to let other people look out for you.”

“Even Oscar and the front office?”

“Well, maybe just Oscar. He can be a little pigheaded, but his heart’s in the right place. Here, taste this-”

“He took care of me,” Ginny confesses, pulling Al’s attention from the white sauce. “At the recovery retreat, he found me and he didn’t just cook for me. It as that he didn’t let me sulk or wallow. Reminded me to take my meds and go to physical therapy. He made me call my mother and Will. For a while, it was like having a nagging housewife. But he was lonely, and I was lonely. And he made me better, and I think I made him better. I’m still trying not to get the low again or that alone. Because I have real friends now. And I have an after baseball life plan that’s not a plan exactly, but an idea. Which is kind of progress, right Skip?”

Al just smiles down into the white sauce he’s stirring.

“I probably should have said all of that slower, and maybe not all at once,” Ginny grimaces, embarrassed. “I just know you worry about all of us. And you don’t have to worry about me.”

Al chuckles. An unspoken stamp of approval. “I do worry. You can’t be as old as me, seen as many things as me and not worry. What am I still doing in this game if it’s not protecting all of you? You, Livan and the rest are gonna give me an ulcer at this rate.”

“Probably more Livan’s fault than the rest of us, right?” Ginny jokes, but it doesn’t land. Instead, Al’s face grows somber.

“Livan’s got as much ahead of him as you do. Just different reasons for why he hides it the way he does." There's something rueful in the way Al seems to hang his head. Ginny can't know what Al does or doesn't know, only that her teammate is in the best of hands. Of someone who actually gives a damn. "And like you, Livan can tell the world when he’s ready.”

“The Padres are gonna be fine, as long as we’ve got you, Skip.”

”You’re just trying to butter me up so you can sneak a bite, and it won’t work, Baker.”

But Ginny already has a mouthful of gnocchi and Al banishes her from the kitchen while brandishing his ladle.

***

“Bring it in boys,” says Al wrapped in an apron carrying in serving dishes. “Who's saying grace?”

Mike stands, just left of the head of the table, his chair scraping the floor behind him. More groans were heard as the rest of the team settled into their seats. Another speech; and a long one by the looks of it.

“As we gather around the table, as sit side by side, teammates and brothers and… the weird sort of sister no one asked for-” Al clears his throat. Loudly. Mike presses on. “We need to take time to reflect and relish all that we have. How far we’ve come and where we’re going. Because here, with this meal before us, the good company around us, the high hopes ahead of us, we have to commit to one another. Because this year is our year, boys.” The boys cheered, and Al allows it, glasses being raised and praise sent up to the good Lord out of the most faithful. “So let's eat and drink to good health and clear skies. And by the grace of whatever the hell you or the man next to you might believe in, we are gonna work, we are gonna grind, and we are gonna win gentlemen. Amen.”

There's a cheer, and a clap and a dismissive look from Al who probably expects grace to be a little more reverent. Ginny knows that would never have flown at a black family table. But she can’t help but smile anyway.

Everyone is inches away from dishing out their first helpings when Mike cuts in one more time. “One last thing, gentlemen. And no groaning, suck it up. I need you all to hear this. My agent and Padres’ publicist are drafting the statement as we speak.”

There’s a breathless moment that hangs in the air and Ginny reigns everything inside of her not to react to the eyes that dart from Mike to her to Mike again.

“This year is gonna be my last. As a Padre, as your captain, as a ballplayer. I’m retiring.”

The apprehension deflates. It’s replaced with something heavier. Ginny sits back. She’d known it was coming. But for the first time she’s taking in what it will really mean to play ball without Mike. Around the table, the men sit with drooped shoulders and frowning faces. All except Oscar, who sits down the table across from her. He is the only one watching her instead of Mike. His chin jutted out, eyes narrow and skeptical, looking for something he isn’t going to find.

“So let's make it count. And if we could, let’s take a moment of silence to just remember. To reflect... and more importantly, to feel so very sorry for whatever poor bastard Baker tricked into proposing to her.”

In the moment of quiet solemn snickering, Ginny hates every one of them just as much as she loves them. And that’s a lot.

“Gentlemen,” Al says, “enough’s enough. The press is always gonna have it out for Baker, but if we do more the same, this team isn’t going anywhere. Now, would I personally love to know the name of the soon to be Mister Ginny Baker? Of course. If only so I could put the fear of God into him about breakin’ our girl’s heart here.” A surprising number of voices rose up in agreement, taking Ginny aback. “But until Ginny feels ready to tell the world who her special somebody is, we keep Padres business to ourselves. No goading the press, no letting the front office go on fishing expeditions for information. Ginny is one of ours. And whoever her fella is, well it’s clear he’s making her happy. And I happen to think happy is a good look on you.”

Oscar and the others nod in agreement. Omar actually sniffles a little using a table napkin to dab at his eyes. And Livan in a rare genuine moment, claps on the shoulder and tells her, "we got you."

Ginny hasn't let a man see her cry since she was a child. The Padres aren't about to change that any time soon. “See Lawson," she starts, voice cracking, "now that’s a speech." The guys laugh and her voice gains traction, "take notes.”

“Oh, c’mon!”

Ginny ignores him. “Skip would you give a speech at my wedding? Lawson thinks he should do it but I don't know if he's up to it.”

“Really?” Al beams, not sure if she’s only asking to piss off Mike. But the truth is she’s not. Her father’s gone. Her brother isn’t well. What other father figure knows her as well as Al Luongo?

“Absolutely,” she assures him.

“Then I’d be honored. And just so you know, I’m no amateur. I spoke at Oscar’s wedding and everything.”

“Oh yeah?” she turns to the general manager. “How’d he do?”

“Not a dry eye in the house,” Oscar promises. “Now are we gonna eat? Or does anyone else have life-changing news to share?”

Livan raises his hand. “When’s it too early to start clearing out Lawson’s stuff. I’m thinking I want his locker.”

“Never change Livan,” Mike says, dishing out the first round of pasta, “And by that I mean, please, please do.”

***

The meal ends with everyone ten pounds heavier and still managing to dance around something. Butch won’t look her in the eye and Sonny keeps looking like he’s about to say something.

Mike is the one to put them out of their misery. “There’s a team tradition. They don’t want to drag you into it.”

“Which is?” Ginny presses, sick of the hesitation when she just wants to enjoy whatever Cara keeps mixing into her glass.

“You missed a call sign in the game today. And if you were a man you’d be washing the dishes from the team meal.”

“But I’m not, and so you’re all squeamish about how it looks for me to do all the cleaning. Wow. How chivalrous.”

“We truly are,” Mike concurs, with a faux misty-eyed look.

“Shut up. You skipped the entire game. For no good reason, I might add. At least Blip is with his family.”

“Fine. Clear out you wild animals,” Mike commands, a clear about-face in the nobility of his men. “I’ll clean half and you do the other, Baker.”

Ginny looked him up and down. “You know how to clean?”

“Hey, I’m almost domesticated. Just ask my pain-in-the-ass ex-wife.”

“I could. She won’t stop calling me. She says it's for an interview but honestly she’s a little obsessed with me.”

The boys ooh and ahh as they depart back to the patio.

Which leaves Cara, determined to help. Ginny dismisses her. “Go save Eliot from Livan. He’s got it out for him and I don’t need the only two women here doing all the grunt work.”

“Yeah, I don't know if he wants to be saved-” Cara laughs offhand, following the pack out the door.

Turning around, Ginny finds Mike stacking china dishes a foot high into the air all balanced on one hand like something out of a carnival.

“How even?”

“I never told you about my sordid past as a busboy?”

“I thought you just sprung up out of the ground behind the base plate like a gopher but a full grown man with a terrible beard.”

“You love the beard,” he laughs. “Stop fighting it, accept it.”

The door to the kitchen swings on its hinges, enclosing the chef’s domain from the rest of the house. Mike ducks under the low clearing entrance showing Ginny just how good a busboy he was once upon a time, deftly maneuvering his and her stacks of plates into the sink with barely a sound all before pivoting and lifting her up into the air and onto the counter. He’s crouched over her, between her legs with his hands in her hair pressing into her mouth with a hunger that the red sauce had clearly done nothing to satiate.

“We’re gonna get caught-” Ginny laughs into his mouth.

“I’m sorry, we? No, you already got caught. It’s everywhere. I am literally being haunted and hounded by the ring I bought you. People are selling their firstborns to find out my name, meanwhile, the tabloids are concocting crazy stories about Baker’s Beau that even I’m starting to believe. Its Drake isn’t it? You're leaving me for Drake.”

“Shut up,” and she kisses him again but he pulls away.

“Just tell me it’s not Bill.”

And while she cannot with his antics, she has to ask, “Bill who?

“Clinton. Hasn't Hillary been through enough?-” Ginny ignores him, has his bottom lip between her teeth and a leg wrapped around his waist and they shouldn’t be doing this. They agreed not to see each other for the rest of the season. Never to be alone together. Because they always wound up like this otherwise. Her hands in his hair as he bit kisses down her collar bones. All the while still managing to ask, “why were you even wearing it?” against her skin.

“Because I was alone,” she tells him, exasperated and frustrated with where he refuses to put his hands, “and we were texting-”

“I text you all the time,” he says, incredulous.

“Yes but you were texting-texting me,” she says with emphasis, lifting her body to press her hips firmly against his.”

“Oh. You mean you wear the ring when you touch yourself reading my- damn that’s hot. So hot I'm almost not even mad anymore.”

“Yeah, hey Mike? Shut up and kiss me.”

He bites his lip, ridiculous as always. “See I would. Really I’d love to. But I have to ask, and I know you hate it when I do, or when anyone for that matter, so don’t bite my head off.”

“I’ll bite something off,” she threatens.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine when my fiancé stops wasting our precious alone time. The time we’re not gonna get a lot of for the rest of the season.”

“A man broke into your hotel room,” and Ginny’s never seen Mike’s features so grim before.

“And he didn’t know what hit him.” It’s meant to comfort Mike but Ginny knows it’s not working. “I know that’s why you didn’t stay for the charity game. Livan said you threw a fit. Not very low key. And neither is asking for a moment of silence for _yourself_ in front of everyone we know.”

Leaning back, her arms around his neck, she can feel the tension still set in his shoulders. He’d been worried. It reminds her of their latest days out of last season. When he had found her after her surgery at the recovery retreat. Fretting and pissed that she wasn’t eating enough or following her doctors' instructions.

“Where did you even go? Were out hunting him in the streets of San Diego?”

“I knew if I saw you before I got my shit together I was gonna do something stupid. Like throw you over my shoulder like king kong and drag you back to my place.

“All that huh? With those knees of yours?” she teases.

“Oh, it's like that?” Mike asks, lifting her up and over his shoulder. He spins her around with a playful smack to her ass because somethings never change. When he sets her down, she’s flush and happy. A feeling she’s getting used to. “You know they keep asking and I want to tell them. I’ve never wanted to share anything before but- Everyone keeps saying I’m different. That I'm nicer, happier.”

Mike grins, another thing she has to get used to. His sad old man beard looks better in the light of happiness. “Yeah. My agent and Salvy were telling me the same thing. He caught me whistling to myself.”

Ginny winches. “Maybe we should tone it down a little.”

“Baker. I make no guarantees with you. And I feel you should know that I only volunteered to help with the clean up so I could cop a feel. I’ll just take my leave…”

Ginny throws a dry sponge at him. “You’re washing. I'm rinsing.”

Mike dutifully takes his position and begins scouring red sauce.

“You know Mike, there’s one guarantee you can make.”

“What’s that?” he asks, idly testing the sink spray nozzle.

“This is the year we’re going to the world series.”

Mike laughs. Hands her a china plate. “That’s a pipe dream to sell the boys-”

“I mean it, Mike.” Ginny is serious. More serious than she’s ever been. “I’m gonna win you that ring. One to match the one you got me."

Mike starts to say something and then closes his mouth. Presses his lips into a thin line.

"C'mon, what else are we here for, if not to take it all the way? It’s your last year and I know you want it more than anything.”

Mike leans down to kiss her again, helpless not to, breathes her in like it’s the first time. If Ginny had to pick a name for the expression on his face, she’d call it longing. But that doesn’t make sense. Not when she’s right here with him holding her. “Not more than anything,” he corrects her, nose to nose-

-and glass shatters somewhere behind them.

“Oh my God.”

Two figures stand against in closing doorway behind them. Eliot, wavering dumbly, blinking fast, hands emptied of the shattered wine glasses. And Cara, who hands Eliot her stack of dishes and soundlessly turns and leaves, eyes wide and grinning.

“Shit,” Mike curses. “Who the hell is she again?”

“My clubbie. Cara.” Ginny holds tight to Mike’s sleeves when he turns to chase after her. “Don’t worry. She’s my friend. They both are. And they won’t tell anyone- right Eliot?”

Eliot only blinks. “Lawson isn't- he's not on any of the polls.”

Mike furrows his eyes, Ginny cuts him off. “That's good, right Eliot? People knowing would be… bad.” Ginny trails, simple words to shake Eliot from his stupor.

“Bad,” he agreed. “Very bad. Astronomically bad. Disastrous. Calamitous. Apocalyptic.”

“Does he only speak in adjectives?” Mike asks, Ginny spares him a glare, rolling her eyes.

“Livan,” Eliot says, puzzling to himself. “He won.”

“Won what?” Mike demands, suspicious.

“Won the bet. He put a lot of money on you. Said you two really were that stupid. I thought he was crazy- No, this is what’s crazy, they’re gonna kick one of you out of the league!”

Before Ginny could even try to ease her agent’s panic, Cara bursts back into the room, her hair wild and in her face, Livan at her heels with a knowing smirk. Its Livan who tugs Eliot by the arm until he comes unglued from where he stands, whispers something in his ear that makes Eliot nod. “I’ll calm him down for you, _Mami_ ,” Livan winks. Cara follows after, laughing, “is now a bad time to mention they’re fucking?”

Mike turns to her, disbelieving, “what were you saying about them being able to keep their mouths shut?”

“I don’t know. What were you saying about this team constantly sleeping with my agents?”

“I don’t-,” Mike sputters, “let’s not rehash that argument just yet. Besides, how do they even know each other? No, nevermind. Doesn’t matter.” Mike scoffs. “You need to fire both of them and I need to pick somewhere to hide his body.”

“Just wash the damn dishes before I make Livan your best man.” She stands on her tiptoes, kisses him one more time for good measure. “I love you, and we’re going to be fine,” she vows, running her hand over that stupid beard. “After I hunt Cara down. And get some answers out of Eliot. And talk to Livan and maybe throw Oscar off our trail. And win you the World Series.”

“Oh is that all?” Mike watches her make for the door. “You know what, this is all an elaborate ruse you and her planned to get out of doing the dishes, isn’t it?”

“I don’t need a ruse for that Mike. Just the promise of sex,” and like that she slips on her ring and heads back into the fray.

It was going to be a good season.

 

 

 

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> {Some inspiration owed to and written with my One Hundred and One Shots challenge, prompt #79: Diamond}


End file.
